


A Face in the Dark

by Rigel99, timetospy



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, Memory Loss, Strip Tease, Vanished Q, from a prompt on the facebook group
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:58:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9921905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/pseuds/Rigel99, https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetospy/pseuds/timetospy
Summary: When Q suddenly vanishes, James tries everything to find him with no luck.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rigel99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/gifts).



> This was a prompt given to me by [rigel99 ](http://www.rigel99.tumblr.com) on the 00Q facebook group. I hope it serves.

James shifted his weight again as he sat in the uncomfortable chair on stage, six cameras pointed right at his face. It was disconcerting, knowing his face was going to be broadcast across the country, seen around the world, but they’d exhausted all other options.

It had been six days, and no one had seen or heard from Q. At all. Not even a flag on any of his aliases. They’d scoured the globe, all the double-ohs but particularly Double-Oh-Seven, looking for a trace, a sign, that Q had gone to ground. Eventually, they reasoned he had to have been kidnapped and those responsible had probably killed him immediately.

But James wasn’t about to give up hope. Not quite yet. His Quartermaster was a resourceful little shit, after all. Which is what landed him here, in front of these television cameras, in an attempt to make one last plea for information.

Giving up his anonymity was a small price for the return of one of the few people on this planet he trusted.

It was an easy interview with the host, soft questions about their history (mostly invented details about how they met, what they did, interspersed with two all-true tales from their trip to Majorca last spring) and when Q (well, Simon. It was his favorite alias, and the one they’d used on the trip) had disappeared.

“Please,” James said, shifting his weight again with a hand on the arm of the chair. He looked directly into the camera, schooling his face into a perfect semblance of fear and pain - it was troubling how sincere an expression it really was, he thought he’d resigned himself to the fact that this was a last-ditch effort. “Please, if you’ve seen him, let me know.”

The host made some sympathetic noises and squeezed his hand, which was uncomfortable and too friendly for having just met two hours ago while she’d screamed at her assistant about a latte. James bolted out of that studio the second he’d been given the all-clear.

It didn’t seem to have done any good, though.

Oh, he got plenty of offers from gorgeous people of every persuasion to help him recover from his loss. He even took one or two up on the offer, but it didn’t help.

Every day that passed, James was more and more certain that Q had to be dead. He’d never disappear like this without telling anyone, would he?

James dutifully kept the flat, fed the cats, stared at the cardigans folded neatly in Q’s drawer. He couldn’t go out on missions anymore - not after plastering his face over every single television screen in the country - so he’d been transferred to training. He was good at it, he found, but it didn’t fill the long, empty silences at home.

It was a slow, creeping sort of restlessness that itched under his skin after the first month. He started going out to the local in the evenings, surrounding himself with people he wasn’t expected to talk to just so he wouldn’t have to listen to the silence. But eventually that, too, lost its lustre. You can’t drink alone for long before people become curious, invasive, all in the name of ‘helpfulness.’

So he quit going.

But he couldn’t sit at the flat. Couldn’t stand the silence, the Q-shaped space on the sofa, the half a wardrobe still full of Q’s trousers because he couldn’t bring himself to box them up. It was a tiny glimmer of persistent hope and he could not put it out, no matter how many times he told himself Q was dead.

After six weeks, Mallory drew him aside and asked if James would allow him to make the funeral arrangements.

James flatly told him no. Not yet. It wasn’t time.

  
  


He wasn’t sure what pulled him in through the doors of JoJo’s that night - the promise of being surrounded by people who wanted nothing at all to do with him or perhaps just to watch young lithe bodies on the catwalk. But whatever the reason, James found himself in a seat near the stage, a martini glass in his hand. It was classy, as far as these kinds of places went. Clean, for one, with a curtained stage. The clientele well-dressed and more subdued - which might account more for the time of day than the atmosphere. But he could still buy a lapdance for a hundred quid if he wanted, and there was a part of him that wanted very much to drown the silence in gin and vodka and the attentions of a pretty boy.

But before he could make a careful scan of the crowd, the spotlight lit the curtain where it separated and the music changed from a rhythm-heavy electronica to something jazzier, with a swing beat and a bright tempo.

A slender arm parted the curtain, white ruffle at the wrist at the end of a red velvet sleeve between the dark heavy curtains like a promise. Someone in the audience whistled. Then a shoulder peeked out, and maybe it was the martini, but it looked as though the body was oozing out of the curtain, being created right there on the spot out of his imagination.

A foot appeared next, in a tightly laced black leather boot, then the leg attached, pale and smooth and as slender as the arm, and suddenly, as though dropped from the heavens, the man was onstage. He wore a red velvet tail coat and black silk top hat, unruly hair curling up around the brim, no shirt, and black leather shorts so tight they could have been painted on. On his face, a mask decorated in black feathers.

James was captivated. Partly because the man’s coloring so closely resembled Q’s that it was easy to imagine it was truly him up there, dancing just for James.

The man moved with the fluid motion of a trained dancer, hiding, revealing, hiding again his body with practiced movements.  James couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so aroused by merely watching. His trousers were becoming uncomfortably snug, and he shifted in his chair to try and relieve the pressure.

After what seemed like mere moments and also hours, the red jacket slipped off the man’s shoulders puddling onto the stage and James gasped. There, just above the waistband of those leather shorts, was a dark birthmark in the shape of a heart.

What were the chances? Dark unruly hair, slender build, full pink lips and a heart-shaped birthmark that James could trace blindfolded just above the rise of his right arse cheek.

James was up and out of his chair like a shot. Why. Why was Q here? What-- it couldn’t be Q. It couldn’t be. Q was dead, had probably been dead for two months, and nobody knew what had happened. Q was dead. This was just another dark-haired boy with a birthmark. But the idea of it rankled, chewed on the back of his mind so fiercely that he couldn’t think of anything else.

Why hadn’t Q said anything? Surely he was close enough to the stage to be recognizable, considering he’d stood so abruptly. Did he not want to be found? This was certainly a strange place for Q to turn up, perhaps he’d found some sort of criminal organization, had to go deep undercover without telling anyone--

James knew he was spinning wild stories to soothe himself, but he had to admit he needed to know for sure if it really was his dead Quartermaster under that mask. He called to one of the servers, a man with muscles made for show not service, and asked about a private performance from the man onstage.

The server chuckled and informed James that Sebastian never took private dances.

“Look, money is no object. He can name his price.”

“I’ll tell him, but I don’t think it’s about the money, love.”

“We’ll see.”

The server came back ten minutes after the show ended to thunderous applause, a bit bewildered.

“Five thousand pounds,” he said. “Not negotiable and paid up front.”

“Done.” It was worth any price to put his mind to rest.

The server shrugged and led James to a curtained room off to the side and down two shallow stairs. 

“How would you like to pay for this?” the server asked, and James laid his MI6 plastic on the table. The server nodded, took the card, and disappeared. James settled himself in the chair situated in the middle of the room and waited.

The server came back after only a few minutes, even more bewildered, handed James the card, and a receipt to sign.

“He’ll be out in a few minutes. Care for another drink?”

“No, thank you. I’d like to have a clear memory of what I’ve spent my money on.”

“Sure.” The server vanished again, and didn’t return.

Fifteen minutes later, Q (because James has already begun to think of him as Q, even though he rationally knows it can’t be) stepped into the small room. He was dressed again in the red velvet coat and top hat and mask.

“Take off the mask?” James said. 

The man merely shook his head, lips curling in an enigmatic smile that broke James’ heart.

“Please. If that’s all my money pays for, take off the mask.”

The man cocked his head, one eyebrow arched over the line of the mask, and slowly removed his top hat, then pulled off his mask.

James sat down hard in the chair.

“Well, I know I’m a looker, but I have to admit I’ve never had someone fall down from it before,” Q said, cheeky grin lighting his eyes.

“You’re alive,” James murmured, disbelieving his own eyes. “You’re alive, a mile away from our flat, and you  _ didn’t tell me _ ?”

“What?” Q said, frowning.

“Q.” James mastered himself and stood on shaking legs, taking a step forward. 

“Look, sir, maybe you’ve had a bit too much to drink, but you’ve just spent a lot of money on this, and you’re not making any sense.”

James stopped cold. “What?”

“I don’t know who you are, or why you think I should share a flat with you, and leaving with strange men certainly isn’t something I make a habit of. Sir.”

James stared at the man, at Q, it had to be Q there was no question, and saw that there was no recognition in the eyes.

“What happened to you?” James asked, barely above a whisper.

“What are you on about? Why do you think you know who I am?” Now Q was squinting at him in that shrewd way he had when he was trying to fit pieces together, when something almost made sense but he couldn’t quite get the pieces to fit.

“Because we’d been living together for nearly a year before you disappeared,” James said simply. “I thought you were dead.”

“How long ago?” Q was curious, now, instead of skeptical.

“Two months, give or take a week.”

Q gasped. “And how did you know?”

“The heart-shaped birthmark on your arse,” James said. “The way your lips quirk just like that when you’re amused but don’t want to show it. Your hair’s even softer than it looks.” James’ hand reached out to touch by instinct, but Q stepped back, still hesitant. “You like your tea with sugar but no milk. You like cats, and cozy cardigans, although nobody here would ever guess that. You like to read formulaic mysteries and solve the crime before you get to the end.”

At that, Q’s eyes widened considerably.

“Who  _ are _ you?”

James’ heart broke afresh. This was almost worse than Q being dead - knowing he was right here in front of him but Q not understanding, not knowing. Was it some kind of amnesia? It seemed impossible, but Q’s eyes didn’t gleam with recognition, only regarded him with a fair amount of suspicion and alarm. He had to take a moment to swallow down the lump in his throat before he said, simply, “The name’s Bond. James...Bond.”

There was no instant of recognition, no breakthrough of memory. That would have been too melodramatic, too much like one of those made-for-television films. And that wasn’t how things worked, anyway.

“You…” Q searched for words on the ceiling, hands on his hips, a posture James had seen many times. Q was fitting puzzle pieces together, trying to make sense of something. “Say I believe you,” he said finally. “What then?”

“I want to know what happened, why you didn’t come home, where you’ve been. Alan and Margaret miss you.”

“Cats,” Q said. “Those are cats’ names.”

James’ smile was small, but he could feel the corners of his mouth tic up. Of course he’d remember the cats before he remembered James. They’d been part of his life for far longer, after all. It was so perfectly Q.

“Yes,” was all he said.

“Alan is orange.”

“Yes.”

“And Margaret is a mottled black and tan.”

“Yes. I have… I have a photo here on my phone,” James said. “If you’d like to see.”

“Please.”

James thumbed open his phone and pulled up the one picture he had of both cats, which included a very toothy picture of the both of them. It was a liability, he knew, but this particular phone never left the country, so it was a risk he’d been willing to take to have a small memento tucked into his pocket. He handed the phone over to Q, who stared at the image with wide, wondering eyes. Somewhere, somewhere in the back of his mind, there had to be a glimmer of acknowledgement because the next sentence out of his mouth didn’t make sense otherwise.

“I wish I could remember. We look so happy, here.”

James had been prepared for him to reject it as false, a manipulated image, created for some kind of elaborate plot. Instead, he’d instantly known the photo was real. It was instinctive.

“I don’t expect you to come home,” James said. “After all, I’m a veritable stranger.” He took the phone back from Q. “But…” James felt the corners of his mouth tic up again, “If you’d like to meet for lunch tomorrow? At the bistro on Ledbury Road.”

Q’s fingers released the phone slowly, as if he wanted to keep staring at the picture until it made sense, didn’t want to let a piece of the puzzle slip away. He nodded slowly, so slowly it was almost not a gesture at all.

“Is half-one agreeable?”

Q nodded more firmly this time, and James slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket.

“Until tomorrow, then,” James said, but then struggled with some kind of farewell gesture. A handshake seemed a bit formal, but Q looked like he would bolt like a frightened fawn if James tried to embrace him, so he settled on squeezing Q’s shoulder and smiling in a way that spoke of tenuous hope.

“Until tomorrow, James,” Q replied, and hearing his name in that voice from those lips was the sweetest sound he could have ever imagined.

“Until tomorrow, Q.”

It wasn’t until James was halfway back to their empty flat that he realized Q hadn’t questioned the name.

Perhaps he could allow himself a bit more hope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funny thing happened on the way home from work...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Rigel99 was inspired by my gift, and has CONTINUED! I know I said I wouldn't write more, and I haven't, but RIGEL99 DID! AMAZING!

**8 Weeks Ago**

Even a man's dream job has its off days.

Saving the world? Awesome. Working in an environment surrounded by people of a like mind? Amazing. Geeking around with gadgets? No equal.

Sometimes though, the job took its toll, and though Q was a great believer and advocate of the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few, even someone like him, possessing the vigour of youth and a powerful intellect had their limits.

It had been a blazing argument with M that afternoon, compounded by the fact that he had very nearly lost an agent mere hours before. Such stressors did nothing to keep Q's temper in their typically balanced, zen-like state. He had practically laid his career on the line to defend James' offscript response, made in an effort to salvage what meagre positive outcome they could from a mission gone to hell in a handbasket.

True, Bond's decision had been reckless - as per usual - but his hand had been forced by limited options, and thinking on one's feet while dodging a hail of bullets had been quite punishing in itself.

Under such mitigating circumstances, Q considered a reprieve was in order.

Mallory was a stubborn arsehole, one of the few things he and James _could_ agree on. The "discussion" had ended with the enforcement of a six-week grounding for Bond. Q scrunched his face into a grimace and sighed. Normally, two months of coming home to the sight of Bond lounging on their sofa being pawed lovingly by his cats would have been welcome, but recent developments in cyber-terrorism had all the agencies on high alert, and Q was working double time to bring his branch into line. He'd already had to fire three of his staff in the last two weeks because they simply could not keep up with the demands required of them.

Not quite the way he had wanted to end the week, with a black mark from Mallory and three bodies short but if it got Bond's punishment reduced from twelve weeks to six, Q considered the temporary blemish on an otherwise exemplary record worth it.

He exited the building and headed for taxi rank.

In a characteristic move of the Universe siding with Mallory in the corner of arseholery, it decided to have one last potshot before the end of the day. It started to rain.

_Brilliant_ , Q thought to himself, rolling up the hood of his parka around his head. He didn't too much like the sensation of his peripheral vision restricted but it was only temporary until he reached the tube station, the tail-end of rush hour crowds as laser-focussed as he on getting out of the rain and to the sanctuary of home. At least he'd had the sense to leave his laptop in his office. Its clone, ever present in his - their - flat would be more than sufficient to see him over the next 24 hours...

His phone pinged. He pulled it out in mild agitation. _Assuming of course he got any peace over the next twelve hours_ , he huffed internally. He'd pulled the momentarily offending piece of technology by the time he was at the top of the descending escalator.

Waking the screen, he saw a message from Eve, informing him Mallory wanted to see him first thing in the morning. Q felt his agitation rise unabated. So much a few hours downtime. While he wasn't looking forward to a whole two months of round-the-clock Bond, he had been looking forward to a quiet dinner with the agent tonight...

In his distracted state he failed to register the quick and hasty steps hurrying down the stairs behind him. A sharp shoulder butt struck his back hard, and Q's smartphone went flying out of his hand, cracking against the escalator steps and smashing to the floor at the bottom, a lost cause.

"Bloody hell, you idiot!" he shouted, focussed on the retreating back, stepping forward himself to give chase and unfortunately, into the path of the runner's pursuer. Q lost his footing, tumbling awkwardly down, jarring limbs and back, falling completely to the mercy of the jagged edges of the escalator stairs. The back of his head came into sharp and merciless contact with the concrete floor at the bottom. His vision blurred, his coordination non-existent. In the confusion of the next five seconds, he vaguely felt a pair of hands rummage his inside coat and trouser pockets, divesting him of his wallet.

Legs, shoes and distant voices milled about him at the edge of a slipping consciousness. "Call an ambulance!" "Is there a doctor or nurse?" "Somebody help!" Someone leaned over him and he caught a glimpse of bright blue eyes before his own closed against the pain and into blissful darkness, the shadowy image of his agent, his friend and his lover, swimming before his vision and carrying him towards oblivion.

*******************

The woman watched the sleeping body in the bed of the semi-private hospital ward, the curtain drawn around them to enforce what privacy was allowed. She was about to leave him to his enforced sleep. The induced coma had allowed his very severe concussion to heal itself. Fortunately, he was young and healthy, if a little on the lean side, so it would only be a few days more before the procedure to rouse him would begin.

The young man apparently had other ideas. She heard a gentle groan and turned to see eyes flutter open.

"Welcome back, stranger," she said, leaning over him. He brought her features into focus. She was maybe five years older than him, blue eyes and short, wavy blonde hair framed an oval face.

"You're in hospital, after a very nasty fall which I was fortunate enough to witness and call in. There are certain advantages to being a doctor..." she said with a smile. The man continued to look confused. It was slowly dawning on the physician that there was more to his state of mind, the signs making themselves apparent as he gradually returned to the present.

"My name is Doctor Bartlett. Doctor Ruby Bartlett."

"Water..." he coarsed out roughly.

She filled the glass and brought it to his lips, noting the chiselled, modelesque features, already formulating theories in her mind about his origins. He tipped his head back tiredly onto the pillow.

"I'm... I'm... My name..." His frown deepened. "I don't remember..."

"Mmmm. Unfortunately, you had no wallet or ID on you when we brought you in."  She leaned forward and took hold of the hand lying by his side in a reassuring gesture. "So what exactly is the last thing you do remember?" she said softly.

The dark-haired man cast the line of his mind back to the past in an effort to retrieve something familiar that might help him piece together the scattered wreckage his brain.

"Everything's so... jumbled...." He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. Bartlett kept hold of his hand and waited patiently.

"Explosions... cats... lecture halls..." he frowned. "Dancing in a strip club?" he asked in a tone of voice questioning his own sanity.

Bartlett smiled and winked. "Hey. We've all done what we had to do to get where we are in life. How do you think I put myself through Medical School?"

The dark-haired stranger quirked a smile at that.

"It will come back. Don't force it," she said confidently, moving towards the curtain.

"You're leaving?"

"I'll be back," she turned to him with a smile. "Rest and we'll talk again in a few hours."

He closed his eyes once more. Maybe he'd find some answers in his dreams


	3. Chapter 3

**7 Days Later**

“Soho?”

“ You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,” Ruby mumbled theatrically.

“Why are we here?” he asked, the couple pausing on the cobbled street while taking in his surroundings.

“I thought a walk through familiar territory might jog your memory…” she began, her sentence only to be cut short by a delighted male squeal off to their left from the other side of the street.

“Boothe? Boothe! Heavens above it _is_ you!” They both turned towards the approaching stranger to whom Boothe (and what the hell kind of a name was that?) apparently was not. 

He was dressed in a grey, well-fitted suit and was sporting a fedora. Ruby watched the interaction unfold. It was a public place with plenty of people so she wasn’t concerned of anything improper or dangerous taking place.

“My goodness! It must be what six, seven— at least eight I think years since I’ve seen you around! Where _have_ you been, dear boy?”

Boothe’s mouth was flapping in confusion as he tried to process what was happening.

The man placed a hand on his shoulder, and clutched his other fist to his chest, a look of genuine affection settling on his face while he conjured up some memory to which Boothe was not privy. At least yet. “Yours was by a mile the singular most memorable lap dance I ever had.” 

Ruby decided to interject at that point. She cleared her throat. “My friend is having a little trouble with his memory…” she began.

“Oh my dear lad, how _awful_ for you,” he replied reproachfully, as though she need not say anything more. He slipped himself between the two of them, interlocked their arms with his own and lowered his voice conspiratorially. 

“I am absolutely here to help. The very least I can do is buy you a drink and I can regale you with what I do know.”

He steered the three of them in his chosen direction. “I take it you still enjoy a lightly brewed cup of Earl Grey?”

He laughed lightly at the look on Boothe’s face. “You were certainly one of the more refined dancers at the gentleman’s club and make no mistake about it!”

* * *

Two hours and three cups of tea later, they were standing outside a  solitary purple door located down one of the many lesser known side alleys in London’s more colourful part of the city.

“Anything pinging in that brain of yours yet?” Ruby asked, watching his face for some flicker of recognition.

Boothe was frowning, fighting not to succumb to forcing the memories to the surface, for fear they would disappear altogether. He shook his head as though mentally trying to jiggle the pieces into some sort of recognisable pattern.

“Maybe…” he muttered softly.

“Shall we?” their new acquaintance said, stepping forward and pressing the intercom next to the door.

A female voice answered.

“Jessica? It’s Lawrence. And I’ve brought an old friend…”

* * *

“I’ll be fine, Ruby…”

She looked dubious. 

“I have your number. I’ll call later.”

“If you’re sure…” she said, none too sure herself. Boothe looked around at the dimly lit club. Certainly one in the higher class bracket of establishment and felt oddly at home. 

“My memories may be scattered but I’m no shrinking violet,” he replied with a mock stern smile.

“Well obviously,” she retorted fondly, “if you can hold your own in territory like this.”

Lawrence blustered up just then. “Well, obviously as you were here before Jessica’s time she doesn’t know the skills hidden underneath those clothes!”

Boothe felt the blush rush to his cheeks. 

“She will however, give you a chance to strut the boards in an hour or so. You know,” he said with a wink, “that quiet lull between lunchtime and the end of the city man’s working day.”

Boothe just nodded, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Ruby could at least recognise the doubt in his expression, but he shook it off before she had a chance to speak. He mustered up a less-than-confident smile.

“I’ll call you later. Promise,” he said, as Lawrence ushered him towards the side curtain by the stage. 

She sighed. He was an adult. Not truly her responsibility after all. “You’d better!” she called after him.

* * *

His nerves were jangling. Not so much at the thought of performing to a small group of strangers, more at the thought of how comfortable he felt in the sensual garb in which he was adorned. The leather boots and pants, the red velvet coat and top hat, but even more so, the mask of feathers felt oddly comforting. Right on the edge of his mind, he could _feel_ rather than understand that secrets and concealed identities were as familiar to him as a second skin…

But he had little time to dwell on these musings when the music changed and cued his appearance on stage. The music, it seemed, triggered something in his mind that transported him back in time and suddenly, as he eased his body through the curtain with all the sensuality of a stretching feline it really did feel like home.

He didn’t falter in his movements as his eyes scanned the small gathering of suited men scattered and lonely at a few tables and by the bar.

The blond close to the stage seemed particularly captivated and entranced by his performance, so much so, that on its conclusion and en route to the changing room, when the bouncer approached him with his “name your price” offer, Boothe surprised both of them with the figure of £5000, rolling from his mouth like the most natural thing in the world.

More surprising was when the man accepted the demand.

And on top of what had to be the strangest day in any individual's life - amnesiac or not - the acceptance of a lunch date the following day.

Boothe was too surprised to even question why this handsome mysterious stranger had called him Q….


	4. Chapter 4

**The Next Day**

Boothe and Ruby were sitting opposite the restaurant he and Bond had arranged to meet.

True to his word, at 12.29pm, he appeared and took a table close to the window.

“Do you even like Italian?” Ruby asked absently, watching the suit-clad blond settle into his seat and begin to peruse the menu.

“I have no idea,” he muttered, sipping his sparkling water, “but I suppose I might find out shortly.”

They watched for a few minutes more; Bond ordering wine, glancing at his watch, checking his phone.

“I’m going,” Boothe said decisively with a deep breath, standing. 

“Are you sure?” Ruby said, snaring his wrist gently and protectively. He smiled. She returned it, releasing him from her grip. “I’ll stay here. Just in case.”

He looked reassured. “Thank you.” 

She watched his back as he exited the coffee shop and crossed the street; watched as the blond, older man clocked him on the approach and his expression shift to one of warmth and affection, and physically felt the worry ebb from her muscles.

Maybe he is the real deal, she thought to herself. She’d grown quite fond of Boothe. There was something enigmatic and magnetic about him. She really wanted to be there when his memory finally - hopefully -returned.

She watched Bond rise from the small table to greet Boothe, and while he looked relaxed, she could almost feel from this distance his desire to reach out and touch. Instead, he moved to the chair opposite to pull it out. Ruby watched the bemused but slightly flattered expression flit across the younger man’s face…

_**BANG!BANG!BANG!**_

Ruby was up like a shot and heading for the door a split second after she saw Bond go into some kind of ninja mode, push Boothe to the floor and lay across him like a protective shield.

The smell of car fumes was lingering heavy in the air as she crossed the road, the old motor’s engine choking on its own pollution and the cause of the bangs.

“Boothe!” Ruby called, rushing forward to the prone men, Bond standing and hauling his dazed looking companion just as she reached them.

“Owwwww,” he groaned, eyes closed, rubbing his fingers over the throbbing bump on the back of his head.

“Don’t. Move,” said Bond, a tone of authority, turning in one smooth move to exit the restaurant. In Bond’s world, there was no such thing as coincidence and any threat, no matter how seemingly innocuous, was not to be ignored. Especially when it involved an MI6 Agent and top brass in the same location. “I’ll be right back.”

Ruby sat Boothe down again and went to check the bump on his head. A concerned looking waiter hovered nearby. 

“Got any ice? And a clean dishcloth?” He nodded dumbly and quickly retreated to the kitchen to fulfil the request. 

When Boothe opened his eyes and Ruby met his gaze, she bit back the question on her lips. He looked… different. His eyes were greener, clearer and more alert than she had ever seen before.

“Boothe?”

He smiled. “That, my dear Dr Bartlett is my old life. My name… is Q…”

* * *

As it turned out, Bond’s paranoia was misplaced for once and it truly was simply a misfiring engine.

But when he got back to the restaurant, Q and his companion had gone. He returned to the gentleman’s club, but there were unaware of his current living arrangements.

Bond was struggling to tamp down his frustrations when his phone pinged.

It was Tanner, ordering him into Six to be briefed for an urgent mission.

_Dammit._

* * *

**Two Days Later**

Bond was exhausted. Back in one piece but keen to resume where he had left off with Q and hoped to reinitiate contact ASAP.

He slipped the key into his front door, expecting to find the cats waiting patiently for his return.

Tomorrow, he thought to himself, pushing the door shut and slipping off his coat before flicking on the hallway light. He kicked off his shoes and turned to greet Alan and Margaret.

What he was _not_ expecting to see were a pair of glasses, a silk tie and one of Q’s favourite leather cuffs sitting on the carpet in front of him.

It was their signature - a welcome home and an invitation laid at the feet of the returning partner. Bond scooped up the items in one hand and unholstered his gun (because you can never be too careful) and moved quietly down the hallway towards the bedroom. 

The door was ajar. Bond could see the bed, the sliver of light from the hallway pouring the narrow gap and highlighting the line of pale thigh lying over and outside the sheets.

He pushed the door open further, allowing the light to illuminate the rest of Q’s sleeping form. He removed his holster, smiling as he unbuttoned his shirt. He didn’t know what had brought the man back to him, back to their home, back to his bed.

But there was time to find out.

They had all the time in the world.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timetospy thought it was a ridiculous way to end the story and made her general displeasure felt in CAPS LOCK. (LOL). So here's a little bit of 00Q love to round it off.

Room 39 in the National Gallery.

A preordained time, on a preordained seat, in front of a preordained work of art. It was the first time they had met.

And the last time they both would fall in love.

Although, being the men they were, they wouldn’t realise this until much, much later in their professional relationship. A moment of frayed tempers over a valuable piece of equipment Bond had stolen from his workbench.

Q had finally cracked.

But that was Bond’s intention all along. The heat of the argument spilled over so hard that Q’s normally cool demeanour took a well-earned holiday and he pushed back with the biggest shove against the agent’s chest his slender form could muster. That touch, for all its innocence, ignited the simmering boil into a passionate response that Q hadn’t realised until that moment they both had been hurdling blindly towards.

He could rarely look at the corner of his workbench since then without breaking into a full flush at the memory.

In his dream now, every exchange, every word, every slant of the lips and flutter of the eyelashes were played back in slow motion. The sequence ended not with Q leaving after plane tickets, gun and radio had been bestowed, but with Bond pressing him to the bench, onlookers oblivious, the Fighting Temeraire morphing into Hamilton’s Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus. Suddenly then, they are naked, Bond’s hands exploring him with the eagerness of a man who feared this may be his last opportunity for such an experience.

But as dream morphed into reality, Q’s became aware of a very real hand gliding down the outside of his thigh, and up the back to cup a semi-exposed rear.

He groaned, reaching out to discover the bare chest of his very naked Double O hovering above him.

“Mmmm. You’re home…” he mumbled, his mouth dry.

“And so, it would appear, are you. Are you?” Bond asked reaching for the glass of water by the bedside and bringing it to his lips.

Q swallowed a welcome draft from the vessel and smiled. The outline of the agent was clear, but his face completely in shadow against the backdrop of light spilling in from the hallway.

“Though I think my memory might still be a little hazy on a few things,” Q replied, dropping his chest back to the mattress and shifting his hips invitingly towards him. He extended his arms up towards one of the bedposts and Bond noted the other leather cuff already in place. He placed the other one on his wrist and looped the silk tie between cuffs and wrists before securing it to the bedpost.

“I’m absolutely certain,” Bond whispered, covering the length of Q’s body with his own, “that I am never, ever letting you out of this bed again.”

Q responded with a sleepy laugh. “I think Mallory might have something to say about that.”

“Mallory can do one,” he growled, trailing his lips across his back and down his spine to the small of his back.

“He’s putting me on the SMART blood programme,” Q continued, clenching his fists in response to Bond’s delicious assault. “I’ll make sure you have the locator signal installleeedddd…”

Because in that moment, Bond was much more focussed on installing something else where it belonged.

Q’s memory needed no reminding of how good _that_ felt.

Some things in this life just fit perfectly together.


End file.
